the burn book.

A young woman with blonde hair and bangs, wearing a black crop top and dark jeans, stands outdoors during sunset with a golden retriever dog beside her, in a desert landscape with mountains in the background.

written & silently screamed into a pillow by: sam lowe

trigger warning & disclosure:


if you came for sunshine & rainbows,
hit the back button now.
inside: trauma talk, abuse receipts, rage, grief, dark-humor coping, and the occasional middle-finger emoji.

✨🖕🏻✨

this is me navigating co-conspired collapse solo.

what this is (and what it isn’t)

  • personal narrative → first-person feelings, not sworn testimony.

  • strategic catharsis → my brain-dump, not a how-to manual, legal brief, or universal truth.

  • protected speech → opinion + lived experience, shielded by the First Amendment & anti-SLAPP statutes.

  • already vetted → any actual fact i name is backed by records and/or already filed with courts / law enforcement.

what you won’t find here

  • professional mental-health advice

  • step-by-step guides to surviving your own case

  • identifying info that isn’t already public record

sometimes it’s rage.
sometimes it’s dark humor.
sometimes it’s me crying into my coffee at 3 a.m.

read if you choose.

sam lowe

Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

the great fuck-this escape 🖕😐 (part two)

⚠️ trigger warning: this post contains graphic realities of domestic violence, psychological abuse, and covert sexual boundary violations.

if you’re here for soft edits and sanitized survival stories,
skip babe.

this is shitty.
this is gross.
this is what it actually looks like to crawl out.

read with care, or don’t. 🪓

first off—
fucking sorry 🤢
i even have to say
this shit out loud.
it's psychologically
weird as fuck
, 🤢
trust me,
i get it.
but if i don’t
say this shit,
it’ll literally
eat me alive
from the inside out,
rotting me slowly
until i’m just as gross
as the shit i survived.

so here it goes…

again, my bad. 🥀😑

alright,
yo.
getting my ass kicked
by my husband?
zero out of ten.
do not recommend. 👎🏻
not fucking optimal.
but at least with physical shit
it’s like tangible
bruises,
scratches,
black eye,
whatever.
there’s like,
an internal clocking of it—
ya know?
the podcasts,
true crime docs,
the whole fucking thing.

but psychological abuse?
weird-ass covert sexual abuse?
pure fucking chaos.
pure hellscape. 👹
it’s gross.
and fucking confusing.
just permanent,
incoherent fucking
absolute mindfuckery.

so back to
my home-away-from-home
escape route:
𐕣 𖤐 𐕣
the childhood
house of torture.

destination: the east coast.
guess who’s waiting there?
my literal personal
childhood abuse goblin.
🥲🥀

lol yay.
whatever.

so babe—
i try rationalizing
dude’s old as shit now.
seems slightly less awful,
recently-ish.
maybe he mellowed the fuck out?
(i had no other options,
to be fucking real.
i
had to try.)

nah, girl.
fucking WRONG. 𐕣
because immediately
the weirdness began.

no doors were ever closed.
i mean fucking ever.
bedroom doors?
wide fucking open.
doorknob-to-wall open.
wanna grab clothes?
wanna use the bathroom?
full visual of this
grown-ass man lying in bed—
maybe clothed?
maybe covered?
no fucking warning,
no fucking boundary,
no fucking chill.
just immediate,
full-frontal fucking trauma.

this dude,
waited til my partner was asleep—
and i’d hear him
🤢🤢🤢🤢
loud as fuck,
literal feet from
my daughter and i…
just…
doing
whatever?
fucking…
going for it.
💫

childhood memories—
FUCKINGtriggered✨
babe.

lol.

FUCK.
(!#!
#&!&#YI!I#II@)
yes,
i pushed back.
because—
wtf?????

///

speaking of toilets—
💩💩💩
he literally never
closed that door either.
💀
and not just upstairs.
nope,
tiny half-bathroom,
smack dab center of the fucking kitchen. 🤯
this man would literally
full-ass use the bathroom—
(!!!!!!!)
🤯
door ajar,
hand on wall,
sweats down,
full dick exposure—
(bro—
intentionally,
loudly,
making
all the sounds)
while me and his
infant fucking granddaughter
(!!!)

sat right there.
just daily,
casual,
repulsiveness. 💀🚽

and when i finally
get fucking brave enough
to start to say something
because,
hi,
new yet old trauma unlocked, 💫
and i'm not
a helpless fucking kid anymore—
i’m like:
“bro,
can you fucking not?
we literally
see your dick.

not cute,
real weird,
not okay,
fucking stop?”

but he doesn’t stop—
he made excuses,
said doors
“DIDN’T WORK”
said it’s his house
and then—
he escalates. 👺

constant covert boundary pushing:
it wasn't just
💫 accidental weirdness—
it was calculated,
incremental fuckery.
this man
strategically
blurred
every sexual perimeter,
carefully weaponizing
my confusion,
shame,
and fucking helplessness—
shoving me into some fucked-up
weird-ass
domestic caretaker
female fill-in role
🤮🤮🤮🤮

pushing until
the line between
abusive-sexual-exposure
and normalcy
became
non-fucking-existent.

so
anyway—
moving along
i’m so fucking confused
🤮
fucking trapped.
husband finally dips
(thank god?)
nah—
shit gets insane
suddenly bro…
this dude is in full
pseudo-abused-wife mode. 👰🏻‍♀️🫵🏻🤯
i’m cleaning everything—
floors,
bathrooms,
washing sheets,
towels,
clothing—
just him = three loads a fucking day
like i’m the
live-in maid
he never even wanted
but always got to abuse. 💫

bro—
i shit you not.
i saw my mom’s life
flash before my eyes.

🙏 🙏 🙏
[like for the love of god.
bring back the dude
with the fucking
repeated head
punches,
stealing money,
and probably
most definitely
cheating,
10/10 rather that
insideous ass shit.]
🙏 🙏 🙏

the machine breaks—💀💀
(this is gunna be bad y’all)
let’s run the math:
absolutely his fault,
his whole-ass bedding,
six pillowcases,
queen-sized tarp as sheets
= 2x a week
gym,
work,
play,
fuckaroundshit,
bro daily.
+ his fucking ancient appliances
but guess
who’s gunna take that rage?
(and pay part of the bill on my
newly-abandoned-single-mom income)
me, obviously. 💅🥀

babe—
constant.
emotional.
terrorism.

exam tomorrow?
finals week?
major life crisis?
he senses weakness,
piles on laundry,
cleaning,
fakes sick,
what-the-fuck-ever—
just fucking chaos.
six-hour hostage situation.

and every inconvenience
is a goddamn coordinated
psychological attack—
drawer breaks?
bro, he’s raging.
obviously.
telling me to gtfo. ✨
dryer busts?
my fault.
he raged
for a WEEK.
rain tomorrow?
definitely fucking sam’s fault. 🌪🤷‍♀️

midday from his “job”
slamming shit,
yelling shit,
emotionally terrorizing me & baby,
purposefully waking her from naps.
so i’d tiptoe around,
dog locked in garage,
baby petrified—
yo,
straight terrorized
into submission.

every.
fucking.
day.

shit.
this dude
straight up
tried to cancel
my daughter’s
first birthday.
🎉🎂✨🍰🥳
like the day before.
all paid by me.
people all flying in and shit.
same with christmas.
because this fucking
absolute goblin,
could not handle
not being central.
motherfucker would—
fake sick.
fake an emergency.
fake—what-the-fuck-ever.

true narcissist playbook.
control via ✨crisis manufacturing✨

he feels irrelevant
he creates chaos
he punishes you for having joy.

like a true grownup.
true fucking
birthday blackout gremlin.
👹👹👹
babe.
shit made me so
fucking mad.
trying to keep it
the fuck together
for my
fucking kid—
husband just
fucking bounced,
left me holding
fucking everything.
and now?
my daughter’s first…
fucking everything.
ruined.

🙃🙃🙃🙃
fucking end me.
𝟲𝟲𝟲𖤐

bro—
when my husband left,
the imaginary boundaries
went poof
—🪄✨
i confronted him.
over and over—
"hey bro,
doors gotta close, man.
it’s
weird, please."

**he’s fully exposed
himself to us…
(!!!)
mid-day…
door open…
multiple times.
but i’m the chaos.
trying to do anything
to…
fucking
not.

there’s literally no escaping it.

his response?
shock.
fake confusion.
mockery.
then immediate escalation:
threats,
rage,
eviction notices.

me and a fucking baby
in the car at night—
driving around aimlessly,
no protection,
just pure fuckery.

[zero help
from the
babydaddy
dude won’t even pay
the court-ordered support.
i’m on my own.]

shit escalates so violently,
my divorced mom—
who barely speaks to him—
has to
fucking sleep over
(!!!)

just so we’ll have a fucking buffer,
from him stalking us through the house,
demanding we leave,
zero degrees outside,
pure fucking nightmare. ❄️

so
mom chimes in
with her own
warm brand of love:

“i mean honestly, sam?
never invited you—
he did.
very uncool of him
to just
throw you out. 🥀
i totally, completely know—
he’s sexually abusing you—
and you’re begging for help.
🥺🥺🥺
like uhg,
full disclosure.
tried to tell me for…
years…
but………
i pretend to be busy,
i can’t really hear you,
i don’t really have room,
and i was
so happy💫
when y’all
left,
last time 💀💀
he got weird.
🥺💔
so,
i’ll just throw up
a jerking-off

hand-motion
🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯
as i make a “that’s weird” face,
and dismiss you.
sweetie,
you’ll find me—
mowing the fucking lawn.
✊🏻🥺…

me internally like:
[jesusfuckingchrist
youstupidfuckingbitch]


but if you
do stay,
don’t touch shit
not the washer,
not dishes,
nothing.
oh lol
and
maybe we’ll clear out a corner,
the shed?
i mean…
i know
you’re essentially living
in your car🚗🤘🏻
with a baby
but…
eventually.” 💫✨

thanks mom.
damn.
💔✊🏻✨

yo,
i’m deadass.
when i finally
broke down,
tried to
tell the whole family
again 💫
for the fucking millionth time.
[💀💀💀]
mom,
stepdad,
brother,
at one point
my husband
etc.
all of them
everyone knew.
everyone fucking knew,
they did nothing.
or used it against me.
dudeeeeee.
🤮🤮🤮🤮
even like:
"yeah girl—me too."
BITCH
WHAT
😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫
!!!!!!!

i’ve been over here—
begging for clarity,
help—anything,
confused for over
two fucking decades.
brushed off,
minimized,

and yet????
y’all are the reason
this shit continues.

all of you 💔

**same as my partner
when he
dismissed my distress,
and only used it—
to
weaponize it against me.
not to save us,
not to help us,
but to
punish us—
for having
no other viable options.
🤮

and guess what?
not.
with.
my.
KID.

FUCKING EVER.

and then (!!!)
these motherfuckers
flipped.
👹👹👹
start saying shit like:
me leaving is a choice,
i’m being “dramatic”
(!!!!!!!)
bro—
at this point
i straight up
asked my mom
if she’s ever seen her dad…
……
……
……
……
but me?
multiple times
in a few months?!
he…
refuses…
to…
stop
?!?!?!?!??
still
will not
close
a
single
door?
just becomes
more
violent.
L O L
💀🔫
💀🔫
💀🔫
yo.
full on fucking
gaslighting olympics,
F U C K
(internally i know i’m cooked)

now they’re all
blaming me,
painting me aggressive,
stressful,
chaotic,

making me
the fucking crazy one
(as per usual)
for finally fucking exposing
the sick-ass-demented
fucking demons
they pretended
they couldn’t see.
f
u
c
k

!@#((
🥀

shit.
family motto
holds steady since birth:
“wow, sucks for you.
sounds like your fault.”

🤡🖕

honestly,
fuck every single one of them
for making me
say this shit out loud.
for making me
carry it alone.
for not protecting my daughter.
or me—ever
for making trauma
and shame
the only family heirloom
i'll ever fucking inherit. 💫

again—
zero stars.
wouldn’t fucking recommend.

time to ditch the family.
my kid will never know this shit.
never feel it in her
nervous system.

but—
escape part three?
bro,
shit only gets worse.
🖕🥀

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

the great fuck-this escape 🖕🙂 (part one)

part 1



yeah i loved him—
or tried to
at least at first.
fucking gross, right?
so stupid.

🥀🤡

lol.
but here’s how i knew shit
was getting bad though—
not from my family (shocker!),
but from true crime binge sessions.
bitches on streaming services
literally screaming:
"if your man strangles you—
pregnant, not pregnant, doesn't matter—
he’s literally trying to
kill you."

did that stop me?
fuck no.
because complex trauma
is insane like that.
heh.

🤦‍♀️💀

but then the spit
y’aaaaaallllllllllll.
🫡🔫
spit in my fucking face,
like,
repeatedly,
like i was fucking nothing,
brooooooo.
in my mouth,
eyes,
my fucking dignity,
once while pinning me
to the fucking floor.
bro.
like—
fuck dude.
truly imagine it:
his pregnant wife
covered in his own fucking spit.

and then,
(!!!)
just days before
i was supposed to
have his fucking baby—
hospital bed,
heart monitor,
bruises,
panic,
begging to know
if my baby was even still alive.

🖤✨

you know what
that moment really needed?
my mom,
stepdad,
brother,
dad,
literally fucking anyone,
i begged to come,
showing up,
dragging me outta there.

💔🖕

guess who showed?
just mom—
alone,
empty-handed,
sent solo to
"deal with it."

dad,
stepdad,
brother?
anyone?
lol
who the fuck knows.
crickets. 🦗🔪
too busy,
too bothered,
too fuck-off-and-die.

mom’s mission?
pack my whole life
into bags,
drag my traumatized,
postpartum ass back east,
straight into dad’s house
of childhood fucking horror. 🏚👻

realizing—
damn.
since fucking birth,
the family motto has always been:
“wow, sucks for you—
probably your fault, tho."

like, damn,
thanks demon squad,
appreciate the support.

😒🔪

oh, and the alleged
attempted murderer?
getting more violent
the more pregnant i got—
L O L 💀
the man literally
couldn’t beat me
at my regular strength,
so he waited till i was weak,
vulnerable,
about to pop.
real tough-guy shit.

family facetimed in
to the bruises,
the scratches—
clocked it instantly,
and promptly decided:
“that’s sam’s problem.”

my family—
always making sure
i’m properly abandoned,
just in case
i get confused
and think i deserve love
or safety
or something cute like that.

real fucking adorable.

but don’t worry,
i eventually clawed my way out.
part two is coming, bitches,
and spoiler alert:
it’s savage as fuck.

and honestly.
worse.

🤷‍♀️💀✨

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

like girl… seek help, not my story views

girlie.
you don’t fuck with me?
cool.
so why the hell are you still watching me
like it’s your main baddie addiction
years after you left?

babe—
i barely remembered you existed.
unfollowed years ago.
but here you are.
daily.
multiple times. daily.
(???)
💀💀

like shit.

this isn’t even just “i’m curious.”
this is full-blown,
olympic-level hate-watching.
every story.
every post.
baby, this is not casual—
this is ritualized obsession.. 🧠

and you only popped off
the second you
thought i was slipping.
that maybe—i’m weak rn.
that’s
when you strike
say some unhinged shit.
report me.
block me.
(lol ok, you are here, on my profile)
restrict my account
because i asked you to stop
hate-stalking my trauma disclosures
while i’m literally
mid–dv + incest survival arc. 🧨

fucking legendary. 💀

babe,
that’s not petty.
that’s predatory.

girl. be fucking for real.
you didn’t block me
because i was “mean.”
you blocked me
because i broke character.
because i called you the fuck out
and that made your little head implode.

i say “domestic violence”?
you hear “i need attention.”
i say “incest trauma”?
you hear “block and restrict her page.”

lmao. slow clap. 👏

like damn—
i’m dodging fists,
spam call barrages,
credit sabotage,
child support evasion,
and you’re mad
had to straight up get me restricted—
because you came to watch
and i made you uncomfortable?

bro.
that’s the part
that should scare you.
the silencing isn’t passive.
it’s organized.
it’s intentional.

baby—
you self-navigated to me.
i don’t check on you.

but fuck it—

i love this list.


✨✨ the many creative ways
they’ve told me to shut the fuck up ✨✨

let’s run back through my favs:

✶ my dad?
lmao.
the king of fuck you.
cut off a 15-year-old credit card
just ‘cause he cosigned it in 2007
and saw me escaping with a baby and a dog.
knowing that shit was my last card.
he pulled the plug to
financially choke me out.
dude—
i only ever paid that shit.
tanked my credit.
(while already in a financial emergency)

but control
is the sole language of abuse.

yo—
this one’s silly.
✶ my significant other
straight up—
threatened me with
a slander suit
right before he bounced
like “don’t you dare fucking say this shit out loud.”
you beat the holy fuck out of me
and stole my money—
but sure, let’s talk defamation
motherfucker
. 💅

✶ my stepdad?
legit was like
“do you really need to say that out loud?”
yes, bitch.
yes, the fuck i do.
i had your voice in my ear
while i was fighting to stay alive
and now you want
me to censor the aftermath?
lol. girl stop.

✶ you.
babygirl—
you think i’m not used to threats?
stealthy-ass-covert-violence?

you think this is new to me?
lol nah.
this is how shit works, babe.
this is how people—
especially women—
get taught to shut the fuck up.

and you?
you’re not checking in.
you’re not concerned.
you’re not supportive.

you’re just mad
that watching my survival
stopped making you feel superior.
and when that stopped working,
you tried to shut the whole show down.

and babe—
the emotional whiplash of
”i hate her” (unfollow)’
stalk daily for years →
watch me fight through dv
”i’m have to block her
+
report/get her restricted
for being like yo…stop.
=

wild ass
insecure-little-bitch behavior, bro.

but
fuck you too, girlie. ✨✨

✨🖕🏻✨

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

every dude that pissed himself the second i asked for ammo 💀🔫

yo,
you wanna hear the
weakest male shit
ever?
the most pathetic
lack of “protect and provide”
natural instinct 🥊
recorded in modern history??

bro; buckle up.

🏳️‍🌈➡️🏃‍♂️

homie—
you wanna know why
i asked you to teach me how to shoot?
babe, i wasn’t trying to
hang out and vibe
nah bro.
i already clocked the cowardess.
you weren’t gonna protect shit.

so babe—
i asked
because the last time
i tried to protect myself
i picked up some
lesser-ass weapon—
like,
anything to keep this dude
from straight
kicking my ass
just something to maybe
make him pause.
and do you know what happened?

this man had me
on the fucking floor
instantly.
nine months fucking pregnant.
child fully formed inside of me.
ready to be born like now.
and i’m getting hit with
repetitive blows to the fucking head
and body !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
because i had the fucking audacity
to try and not die.

homie.
you know how mad a man has to be
to see a woman try to defend herself—
and fail—
and still take that
as a personal fucking insult?

baby—
that wasn’t a fight.
that was a message.
that was
“i will fucking kill you”

lol.
yo.
wanna laugh?
i was full chillin with
a fucking marine
🪖🦅🇺🇸
and told him
some sanitized
pg-13 version
of my personal true crime story
babe—
dude blinks twice, goes:

“shit… hope i’m not here when that fucker shows up.”

😭😭😭

bro you stormed deserts for democracy
but my ex is where you draw the line?
copy that, dawg.

🥇 y’all are fucking pussies. 🥇


what about my dad?
you’d think, okay,
biological father,
protector, right?
nah homie.
this man weaponized my vulnerability
and turned it into some
incest-adjacent horror film.
like i’m literally running for my life
and he’s looking at me like a fucking target.
insanity.
lol.
brother??
my own blood??
nah.
he’s too busy doing shots
and flexing on golf trips
🥃⛳💸
while i’m out here with my toddler
rationing fruit snacks and reinforcing doors.

man shit?
baby—
i was fighting at 8.
fighting at 9 months pregnant.
when did the dick—
leave your fucking bodies?
💅💅💅

so yeah.
fast forward.
i survive.
barely.

men are nowhere to be found.
no dad.
no brother.
no secret side quest.
definitely no husband.
and then—
there’s this fucking dude.

💀🔫

mr. “i’ll always protect you.”
mr. “lock your doors.”
mr. “let’s start a family.”

baby—
you were just up in me,
like,
last week
talking about feelings and loyalty
and i’m thinkin, ok.
at the bare minimum
you’ll teach me
how to fucking shoot.

but lol
nah.
you hit me with
that emotional baby shit.
🙏🪦

lmfao.
because god forbid
you act like a fucking man.

one fucking time.

hey—
i mean this:
y’all are little fucking bitches.

like couldn’t protect shit.
from a fucking butterfly invasion.
🦋 🦋 🦋

(i’m deadass)

like bro.
i wasn’t trying to drag you into war.
i was trying to not end up in a casket.
maybe keep my kid alive?
and you somehow made that about you?
bro.
fucking spare me.

you weren’t emasculated.
you were just asked to be useful.

sir.
seriously—
are you stupid
or just deeply fucking unserious?

like.
you think i was gonna lean on you?
bro i asked for technical support.
load.
aim.
click.
not therapy.
not loyalty.
not even fucking presence.
just one tiny sliver of
masculine utility.
and you fumbled that???

jesus fucking christ.

yo.
i just asked
for you to…
fucking have a dick.
bro.
to grow some unemotional
non-victim-bullshit
BALLS.

LOL.

yo.
for the love of god.
don’t ever talk to me about
“protector energy”
“real men”
“provider mentality”
LMFAO.
when i asked one thing
after getting my skull
nearly caved in while carrying a child—
and y’all threw a fucking fit
because the vibes were no longer flirty.
💀💀💀

bravo.
you got out-manned
by a single mom with a diaper bag
and a complex trauma history.
do you feel strong now?

babe—
that shit was pathetic.
you ain’t scary.
you’re just another
soft-ass disappointment
in a long-ass line
of weak-ass men
who couldn't even show up
when the bare minimum
was life or death.

but congrats.
at least you proved something:
y’all don’t want women to survive.
you want us to need you.
and when we do?
y’all run and hide.

🏃‍♂️💨

i present y’all
with the honorary:

🏆 weakest bitches alive award 🏆

fucking unbelievable.

no worries,
i’ll get my stage-4
halfway-to-death
old-ass-bestie
to teach me
before…he dies.


thanks ladies.
good work.

👸👸👸👸

👏👏👏
👏👏👏
👏👏👏
👏👏👏

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

✶ in defense of the bag ✶

why onlyfans is the moral apex of capitalism
(peer-reviewed by zero fucks given, written by samantha lee lowe)

m.b.a. = mommy. baddie. academic.

abstract (aka the slap):

  • capitalism’s been robbing women blind.

  • onlyfans is the first time we sent an invoice.

  • moral panic? hold my drink.

babe. it’s a bill. pay up or shut the fuck up.
your righteous outrage = disguised jealousy & client entitlement

thesis (the main shit):

every “respectable” job demands women’s:
• fake smiles
• emotional babysitting
• invisible submission

onlyfans is just the first platform that demands:

“consume my content? pay me directly, asshole.”

the panic? not the nudity,
it’s losing control of the cash flow

exhibit a (corpo hypocrisy decimated):

  1. 92% of exec assistants are women.

  2. women are evaluated more on vibes than productivity

  3. service jobs demand girly labor for $12/hr.

your boy dave’s paycheck depends on your compliance
but god forbid a woman sets the price on her own pussy
sit the fuck down.

exhibit b (emotional labor = free sex work):

  • you want your boss’s “work wife.”

  • you want your hot-bartender-therapist.

  • you want your baddie assistant to take the abuse

    all unpaid, all expected
    onlyfans creators?
    boundaries up front
    paywall mandatory
    block button loaded
    capitalism with a spine, bitch.

exhibit c (it’s sovereignty, stupid):

sex sells, but autonomy fucks with patriarchy
you jerk off in private and clown women in public
that’s not sex-shame, it’s autonomy-shame
you’re mad girlies cash the checks on your fantasies
you’re the client, the user, the thief
bro, take your broke ass somewhere else

exhibit d (whole economy is a whore-house):

  • teachers financing classrooms with second jobs.

  • nurses assaulted, underpaid.

  • warehouse workers piss in bottles

  • single moms = fucked

and we argue what is degrading?

onlyfans is the cleanest transaction in the building.
quit crying, recognize the bag

appendix: jesus, would def be down:

  • he ran with sex workers, not bankers, babe.

  • he flipped tables at exploiters.

  • he never said “cover up.”

he’d tip heavy and roast the pimps
so bitch, shut the fuck up about sin
baby, call out the real monsters

conclusion (mic drop):

onlyfans isn’t immoral.

what’s immoral:

  • demanding free access.

  • moralizing labor while underpaying women.

  • punishing autonomy.

babe.

they’re not ashamed.

they’re not sorry.

they’re not confused.

you are.

✶ shame archives locked.
✶ pay up or look away.

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

👑 king-tier behavior

🧠

babe, are you stalking my brain again?
lol
🕵️‍♂️🫢
weird

anyway.

🎤 hi yes,
welcome to my ted talk called:
“thanks for the absolute fuckery, i’m hotter now.”

but
alright,
alright,
alright—
because
yo,
i can literally already hear it
the whole sad-ass
circus rolling up,
your truck
full of gremlins crying,
“dude 😩 she’s so on your dick 😭”
lol—
baby,
before your boy band fan club
starts revving the emotional clown car
with balloons and blowhorns like:
“brooooo 😩 she’s talking about me again 😭”

🤡


relax.


what you mean is:
bitch got long-game played
and you’re—
🕵️‍♂️ obsessed. 🕵️‍♂️


but since you found yourself here…

💋 let’s make this one count. 💋

seriously.
because i owe you
a massive thank you.

no fr.
🥇 thank you.
gold fucking star. ✨
you were the final boss battle
in my personal apocalypse
and you played the role with such
narcissistic finesse
that i literally stood there
experiencing a mental break—
like
oh shit.


🚨 no one’s coming. 🚨


not friends.
not family.
not husbands.
not men who swore they’d protect me

not a dude in carhartt
pretending he gives a shit
while literally adjusting
their drawstring sweatpants
to text another girl.

my brain was all like—fuuuuuuuuuuckkkk.

babe.
you weren’t a betrayal
you were a fucking confirmation.
like oh right,
i’m the emergency,
everyone saw smoke
and left the fucking building.

🚨 fuck.

and you really cemented that shit
when you popped back in
not to check if i was breathing,
not to ask if my kid had milk—
but to unload your emotional garbage
like i was both
your uninhibited support counselor
and
absolute best fuck ever.
💋💋💋

(i know you’ll miss that shit—lol sucks)

baby—
there was no
“shit babe, what happened?”
🖤

just

”blah
blah
blah”

me.
me.
me.

🧍‍♀️🔫

yo—homie,
did you even hear me when i said it?

multiple times?

nah…

you just pressed
mute

and then hit me with the

“i hate you, i am so much better without you since…a few weeks ago”

lol.
bro.
like
what?

dude,
be actually fucking for real.
i hadn’t even spoken to you.
you give me:
no greeting. no context.
just ✨violence
and a vague—
”i most definitely am out here
lying to someone”

vibe.
🎯

like truly—
wtf happened to you?

like homie,
i wouldn’t have served that shit
to my worst enemy,
in their darkest era,
like,
are you good?

because yo.
i want you to know—
from the bottom of my
now-fully-fucked nervous system—
that was it.
that was my roman-fucking-empire falling.
except no colosseum,
just me,
with a bunch of kids
staring at my phone like
ah.
ok,
so now i really can’t feel—
anything.
nice.
💀

so honestly?
thank you.
no like fr.
because the moment
i got hit with that coward-ass tantrum
instead of a phone call,
a check-in,
a “you safe?”
i got it.
bro—
i finally fucking got it.

you were never going to save me.
and neither was anyone else.
this is solo journey.
final level.
no cheat codes.
just me,
left with everyone’s lies,
and knives in my back.
but fuck it,
right?
🪦

i’m just collateral damage.

but like
yo—
truly.
the absolute worst part?

bro, you know i told you.
like, explicitly,
multiple times,
but definitely
two sentences—
literally as you were sprinting out
the fucking door.
and what did you do?
you hit me with a hate call
so fucking cold it could freeze hell over.
not a single fuck given about my existence.
you weren’t checking if i was alive,
you were just flexing
your own mental bankruptcy.
legendary.
👑

final stab in the heart?
you,
the only dude
i actually trusted
to not be a complete fucking douchebag,
turned out to be the main event
in my “no one gives a fucking shit”
reality check.
like,
i truly almost do want to thank you
for the clarity,
but nah,
for real i’m too dead inside
to actually fake that shit.

like,
wtf is wrong with you?

for real.

but whatever—

round of applause, my guy.
👑 real big boy shit.
👑 real making bitches
have existential crisis level shit—
yeah bro.
👑 king of fucking killing the last spark.
you did the impossible—
you confirmed that nobody
gives a single fuck
and that’s the realest shit.

👏👏👏

mission accomplished.
solid work, buddie.

i had no idea
your actual soul
shit-out.

🎬

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

welcome to the: “did you eat glitter glue or just sabotage yourself?” academy 🍎✏️📚

🧃🧃🧃

yo
everyone take a seat on the rug
gather the fuck up, children
i’m about to put
the whole circle time
on suicide watch
no sippy cups
no emotional support blankies
snacks down
eyes up
it’s time for:
“how to not absolutely shit yourself
when you recognize your own dumbassery
in a post that probably isn’t about you—
but go off and out yourself,
like a clown.”

aka: 🪞😭

babe—
if you feel exposed,
🚩🚩🚩
that’s your conscience
bitch-slapping you in public.

now quiet down,
let’s begin.

🧃🍪💀

let’s start real simple
since half of y’all
are out here
acting like
you’re in witness protection
like this is a full-blown
rorschach for trolls
🧙‍♂️🧙‍♂️🧙‍♂️
i drop a line about
“liars and cowards”
and suddenly
you’re in my
phone logs,
emails,
dms:

acting like you just got called
to the principal’s office

if you feel
✨ personally attacked by a post✨
with zero names,
zero details,
and zero fucks given
i’m gonna need you to raise your hand
and go sit in the
🎯 “guilty as fuck”
time-out corner
right next to the kid
who bit someone
because your ego
has fucking rabies, babe.

🔊 internal alarms are going off like:
if a post about someone acting shady
hits you in the guilty spot
and your first instinct is
“holy shit, she’s talking about me”
congrats!
you just outed yourself
to your own infant-level ego
that’s right
i didn’t even name you,
detective gremlin 🥸🕵️‍♂️
but your dumb ass hopped right in
like “hey, is this seat taken?
i brought my own fucking guilt!”
💀

see,
what you’re experiencing
is called
“pattern recognition for toddlers”
🏆🏆🏆
or as i like to call it:
the
🔊🤡 “oh fuck, she sees me” 🔊🤡 syndrome.

it goes like this:

  1. you lie

  2. you hide

  3. i post something about lies and hiding

  4. you sweat so hard you could refill the kiddie pool

  5. you text your mom like “yo, am i a villain??”

  6. you binge-read everything i post, looking for secret messages 🔬🧪🧬

warning: plot disclosure:
lab results in,
diagnosis:
terminal clownery.
no cure.
🍿🤡🎪

yo, are you okay?
are you hydrated?
because you are sweating so hard
over a post you “didn’t even read”
that your phone is water-damaged
i didn’t even shade you
but here you are
spiraling
like i hacked your diary
and faxed it to your therapist
💀

like,
holy shit
why are y’all so triggered
by words you claim
are not about you?
i say “cowards”
and you hear:
“your full government name
and last 4 digits of your social”
🥷🫥

girl.

i’m just out here
documenting survival,
making literary memes
out of savage trauma—
and y’all are out here
taking the SATs for self-owns
filling in every answer:
🐸 “me, i’m the problem, it’s me.” 🐸

y’all have the audacity
to act offended
when my realest flex
was not even remembering
the unique way you fucked me—
until you slid in the commentaries
doing emotional jazz hands
like ✨“she’s exposing my soul!!”✨

aka:
🪞🧟‍♂️

no bitch
you’re exposing yourself 🔦
i’m just sitting here,
bored,
unfazed,
eating goldfish
and watching you
re-enact your own descent
like a toddler
tripping on their shoelaces
🤾‍♂️

literally—
it’s giving
“where’s waldo”
except you’re waldo!
and the only reason you see yourself
is because you’re literally
walking around
in a little red-and-white striped lie
🤯🙅‍♂️🧠

it’s honestly disarming
watching y’all try to
reverse-engineer my feelings
like i’m out here dropping
epic level fucking riddles
for your inner cryptkeeper
squinting at my words
👁️👄👁️
like you’re about to win
a national spelling bee for emotional avoidance
trying to crack the da vinci code of

“maybe don’t act like an insufferable toddler”✨

as if this is high-level math
as if i’m hiding a map
to my feelings inside
a fucking sudoku puzzle

babe,
you’re not deciphering
ancient alphabets—
but here you are,
in the lab,
test tubes out
mixing up formulas
🧪🥼🔬🧬
trying to figure out
why i’m such a bitch.

it’s not advanced, babe
this isn’t AP trauma
this is coloring book shit
like baby,
you could’ve just
🥇not been an emotional goblin🥇

but nah.
and you know what’s
truly fucking wild?
i would have given you:
a juice box
and a nap
and a “try again tomorrow, champ”
if you’d just acted right
but instead you chose
full on gremlin mode 🧟‍♂️🦖
and now every time i post,
you get flashbacks
to that one time
you fumbled the bag so hard
you could never feel love again
🥀

so yeah
sit criss-cross applesauce
take your accountability snack
and try not to shit yourself next time
someone posts a sentence
with the word “liar” in it

🧸 pro tip:
if you want to stop spiraling every time
a baddie writes about betrayal
maybe just…
don’t…
fuck with people?

i know,
revolutionary
but hey,
i believe in you
gremlins can heal too
but only after naptime
🍎✏️📚

xoxo


circle time’s over
go cry in the hallway
goblin.

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

forgiveness was one honest text away. but y’all love jail. 🖤

yo,
real talk,
for the homies out there
like: 👤👤👤
sometimes i just space out
and think,
damn,
i really could have saved
you so much time,
so much shame-spiraling,
so many embarrassing lies
you can’t keep straight—
if you’d just
opened your mouth and said
one
real
thing.

literally, just one.
one actual adult sentence.
groundbreaking shit.
like for real;
y’all actually could have just.
told.
the.
truth.
like—
imagine!

like,
you could have pulled up and said:

🗣️ “hey, i’m still psycho-texting my ex at 2am”
🗣️ “i’m fucking scared”
🗣️ “i think i wanna be a dad but i also have fear of abandonment”
🗣️ “i’m broke as hell”
🗣️ “i made out with my co-worker”
🗣️ “i’m depressed as fuck”
🗣️ “i started talking to her before you came back around”
or shit,
🗣️ “i have a pharmacy in my sock drawer and i’ve been selling your pills.”
stunning.
i’d have said,
“bet. thanks for being real.”

and either i would’ve:
1. handed you a solution,
or
2. walked away in peace

instead of adding you
to my mental shit list
forever.


you really could have said:
“yo i’m not ready for this,”

🖤

but nah.
y’all picked the hard mode.
like this was a
fucking escape room.
except the only unknown was
“how many times can
i gaslight this bitch
into thinking
it’s her that’s crazy?”
🦹‍♀️
answer?
infinite.
until now.

but for real.
this is the part that kills me
i didn’t even need
y’all to do shit perfectly,
just do anything
honestly—babe.
one time.
one honest
“yo, i fucked up.”

…do you realize
(this is genuine)
i would’ve helped you?
like actually helped you?
or at the very least,
i would’ve had fucking context,
and i would’ve
moved different,
with a tiny,
adorable thing called
“clarity”
instead of full-throttle,
about to fuck shit up,
resentment olympics.

like why?
i probably would’ve
made you a sandwich.
maybe even let you sleep
in my bed instead of in your own
self-created purgatory.
💀

but nah.
y’all went with:
“what if i lied so badly that i create
a whole side quest for myself
and then resent you for noticing?”
💀
like ok bro,
speedrun your own downfall i guess.

but nah.
nahhhhhhhhh.
instead,
y’all turned
“i need to own my shit”
into a multi-season
ego drama
with 200 plot twists,
except the only twist
is you’re all just
cowards with wifi.
💀

and now—
instead of like,
literally sending a
three-word apology,
or just saying “damn i really fumbled that,”
instead of sending a half-assed “my bad,”
or venmoing the child support you owe me,
instead of being an actual grown up,
you just sit there,
binge-reading my life
like a hulu series,
bro—
y’all are really acting like
you’re watching me through glass,
as if your silence = innocence.

the way you all act like not talking
means no accountability.
like you’re a ghost.
like you don’t exist
unless i say your name.
newsflash:
you’re not invisible.
👻

and truthfully
the words you’re looking for
as you scroll every post are:
✍️✍️✍️
damn, i am sorry girl.”

yooooo.
y’all are really so dramatic.
i’m an understanding bitch.
i just didn’t want to be
lied to and manipulated,
and then have y’all act
like i’m the problem
because i fucking said it out loud.

like damn,
that’s not even baddie energy.
that’s just basic adulthood,
and y’all keep opting for,
nope.”
we’d rather go with:
lurking
and
avoidance
and
lifelong regret.

like honestly—
the bar was:
just tell the truth

but instead you chose:
🧢🧢🧢 (cap, cap, cap)

premium gaslight bundle 🔥🔦
and honestly?
that’s outlandish.

but lol.
ok.
good luck out there, kings.
i hope silence keeps you warm at night.

🏆🏆🏆


xoxo

🥀

forever your biggest regret.

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

when you get hit with a “nah” mid emergency.

yo.
let’s just cut the shit
seriously.

when i asked for help,
a friend—

i wasn’t asking like
“lol i’m kinda overwhelmed.”
i meant
🔥 “we are absolutely, no-joke, fucked.” 🔥

bro
i am dead serious.
this is a real emergency.

🫠💸📉
heat index crisis.
power bill unpaid.
$10 in the bank.
ebt approved,
still no card.
showed up three fucking times
during business hours
found the office locked.
so i guess—
fuck me, right?

and yeah.
truthfully,
i was forever that bitch.
because it’s survival 101.
plan ahead.
bought the condo.
savings account padded.
paid off the car.
zero accidents.
everything tight,
always had it together—
bro,
i paid shit off early.

sponsored y’alls lil dreams,
funded my husband’s whole ass fucking life.
rebuilt my dad’s house like
a one-dumb-bitch hgtv special.
📉📉📉

now i can’t even keep the lights on.
and nobody blinked.
👁️👄👁️
not a single fuck.

my dude,
when i texted
“can you watch my kid
while i sit in class?”


i didn’t mean:
“free babysitting so i can vibe.”
💅✨

i meant:
🔥 “if i fail out of school,
we’re absolutely fucked.”
🔥
like,
lifetime fucked.
like,
no-degree,
full-debt,
can’t-ever-catch-up fucked.
⚰️⚰️⚰️

when i said
“can someone help me
carry the AC upstairs”

i meant
🔥 “my kid might overheat and
i don’t have any backup plan
except not dying.”
🔥

and y’all ignored it.
or worse
acted like i was fucking annoying
for asking.
like i was being outlandish.
like you didn’t read along
while i was running out of food money.

🙏💨🧍

and for real—
what’s fucking insane
is how easy
it was for y’all
to brush me off.

to tell me: lol sorry.

like
casually.
coldly.
quickly.
without a single follow-up.

but “no worries” 🙃

and bro—
i wasn’t asking everyone.
i was strategic.
desperate,
but targeted.

like
“hey—maybe y’all,
who’ve known me for a decade—
maybe you could
see me as a
human being
for five seconds
before my shit
blows the fuck up.”
🙏

and to be impartial—
shit wasn’t out of the fucking blue.
this wasn’t some random favor
from a fucking stranger.
it was probably directly after a:

💀 “love you bestie,”
💀 “i’m always here for you,”
💀 ”i swear it’s different this time,”
💀 “nah—i’ve grown up,”
💀 “i’m a family guy now.”

🧃🧃🧃

bro—
don’t act like
i was fucking out of pocket.
you set the stage, my guy.
i just took you at your word.
bestie.
my bad for believing you.
(👶)

but nah.
y’all really—
straight-faced
said:
”eh,
i honestly
couldn’t give a shit
if you fucked off and died.”
✶☠️✶


i try to process that.
like—
damn.
can y’all believe this?
(didn’t even keep it on the main page.)
no names.
just real fucking pain.

lol.
suddenly i’m a fucking demon. 🔪
(💀 dead 2 u, babes ⚰️)

broooo—
y’all were more offended
that i wrote it down.
more mad
that i had the audacity
to narrate my own fucking crisis
on electricity that technically
should already be cut off.

cool.
wild.

🧘‍♀️💸🔥

disloyal-as-fuck.

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

mommy’s doing math, babe

nah, see—

this is what happens
when everyone around you
thinks they’re playing chess
but you were born inside
the fucking algorithm.

they lie,
they hide,
they move weird—

and i’m out here solving
a multi-variable betrayal equation
with nothing but vibes,
a 30-minute nap time,
and a dissociative episode.

bro.
you really thought
you were being fucking brilliant,
didn’t you?

like babe,
y’all were realistically
learning cursive and mario party—
while i was calculating the probability
of getting my ass kicked in real-time.

truly—
you gave me three data points
and i just reverse-engineered
your whole scandal
while microwaving dinosaur nuggets
and i’m already solving:

(how many lies ÷ how fast you text back) × the silence in your tone² = get the fuck out of here before he ruins your life)

that’s just math, babe.

and meanwhile you’re over there
emotionally deregulated because
your parents divorced in 2008
and took you to the hilton
instead of the ritz for your eighth birthday—

(lol, inspired by real life)

is this shit serious?
i’m running data forensics
on financial fraud,
tracing treachery patterns,
decoding generational decay—
and battling the softest bitches alive.

really—
y’all are out here
with the emotional wounds
of being raised
by a stay-at-home mom
and a dad
who bought you too many dirt bikes
instead of asking how you felt.

fucking jesus christ.

you think i’m unstable?

ha. nah.

it’s called hypervigilance, babe.
ADHD + PTSD + a sixth sense for bullshit.
i scan every text,
pause,
look,
and delayed reply
solving for x
where x = how bad is this gonna hurt me
and y = can i afford an emotional breakdown.

if (childhood neglect) + (abusive marriage) / (familial fuckery) = me,

this is matrix-level computations
on every interaction—
clocking microexpressions,
tone drift,
emotional lag time,
and your weird-ass word choices
like a forensic linguist
with a cracked iphone
a fucking will to survive.

and bro—
it’s not even on purpose.
they made me like this.

but nope—
i’m not losing it.
just staying alive.
because homie,
when life is a fucking threat
my brain isn’t just thinking,
it’s scanning
for the trapdoor in your sentence.

like bro—
this isn’t intuition,
it’s data analysis.
i’m literally decoding
the emotional supply chain
of every motherfucker who’s ever
smiled while stabbing me.

yo—
i built a fucking war room
off vibes and silence.

my last dude?
truly,
like a toddler hiding behind a curtain—
read him like my kids’
feel-and-touch baby books.
adorable.
flashy.
and ultimately outgrown.

only fumble was thinking he’d graduate
from deadbeat to dad.

oops.

babe—
i’m not throwing punches;
i’m taking notes—and laughing.

this isn’t paranoia.
it’spattern recognition
in fucking overdrive.

you’re basic arithmetic.
cheat, subtract, divide.

i multiply: rage, strategy, receipts.

and sweetie—
i’ve already circled the date
you’ll regret underestimating the bitch
who did trauma math before she was even old enough to ride shotgun.

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

i chose peace. you chose violence.

nah—
y’all are truly tripping.
i really tried to be nice.
i really tried to choose “peace”
i really tried to fucking love you.

you chose violence.

yo.
i did not wake up aggressive,
i evolve into it.
like—
you gotta really work for the privilege
of seeing me turn heartbreak into
an atomic fucking explosion.

nah babe,
i don’t go nuclear right out the gate.
i ration that shit.
because i remember what it felt like
to almost fucking die
from someone’s casual cruelty
in the middle of my own personal apocalypse.

like y’all think
i came out the womb swinging?
nah babe,

i earned this.

and honestly—
i hold back,
because
i still remember

random shit like
seventh grade:
home life on hell mode,
literally fighting for my life
whole ass friend group
lost the baby fat overnight
shopped at hollister 1x
and then—
calls me a spaz to my face.
after i invited them to a theme park
and they literally said nah
and then went with-fucking-out me.

girls,
seriously.
if you’d seen half my shit
you’d be twitching in a padded room
singing the law & order theme.
yeah, i was a spaz.
it’s called nervous system collapse.

high school:
backpack of shame,
sleeping on floors,
dodging creative violence from pop,
smiling while the “have no trauma” girls giggle—
right.
y’all had sleepovers,
i was running game theory on whether
i could stage a car accident for my dad
and make it look like fate.

and you wonder why i keep the flamethrower holstered.

fast-forward:
i’m just home from the hospital,
from getting my ass beat,
delivering—
while these bitches blow up my phone
about drama and tax forms.
with threats
like,
sorry i missed your venmo request, ashley,
i was a little busy
not getting date-lined bitch.



white-girl crisis hotline lighting up
while i’m out here starring in a true crime doc.

now—
you.
fuck.
i want to roast you,
but i still taste that soft spot
in the back of my fucking throat.
do you know what it’s like
to get a text from someone who meant everything
right after you escape your own fucking dad
dragging you out the car by your hair,
handprint still on your neck,
mom just had a fucking brain aneurysm
left my kid
with a fucking predator
and i’m like—
holy shit
maybe life isn’t just:
getting punched in the head,
restraining orders,
and the world’s shittiest survival instinct?


nah, you don’t.

babe.

you hit me up—
at the precise moment,
i was debating
if god existed or if karma
was just a middle finger in a baby-blue sky.
for five fucking seconds
i thought,
maybe the universe
wasn’t all brutality and police reports.
maybe you meant it.
maybe you wouldn’t epically fuck me this time.

i even tried to fucking tell you.
tears streaming down
my dumb fucking face
please, i prayed
like a truly dumb bitch—
understand me
don’t fuck with me.

but nah—
randomly.
out of nowhere

just fucking

silence.
then radio static.
then the kind of ghosting
that would make houdini get a fucking boner.
like,
one day it’s
“let’s build a life,”
next day i’m full-scale
fucking invisible—
no credits,
no scene,
not even a goddamn post-it note goodbye.

THANK YOU,
I REALLY NEEDED THAT.

and yeah—
you’re the victim.

but wait:

✨ bonus round:
because it’s the truth.
and fucking WEIRD.
ready?
your personal jesus-freak hostage-taker
follows my ass—
same fucking day
🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡
(i shit you not)
literally binge-watching my trauma,
stalking my socials like it’s her fucking job,
while i’m out here googling
“how to stay alive after getting curb-stomped
by hope, men, and the cost of milk.”


and you’re out here handing out sympathy—
for her.

LMFAO.

i just sit there dazed.
like yeah bro.
sounds bad.

fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk.

like is this a fucking game to you?
is this real life?

literally:

get the fuck out of here.

🖤

bro—
i was walking through an actual
fucking nightmare.
but hey:
thanks for the final emotional blow.

[next time i’m just gunna be a manipulative, weak bitch]

but NOPE,
i don’t go looking for war.
but if you drag me to the battlefield,
i go full scorched earth.

i keep my claws in—
because i know one mean comment
can end a whole fucking story.
but push me?
i salt the fucking earth.
i knock planets out of fucking orbit.
and babe,
i do it laughing.

i was bred for this shit.
i chose peace.
over and over and over.

y’all chose cruelty and silence.

so yeah,
maybe i don’t start shit.
but i finish it
with a flamethrower and a fuck-you playlist.

and hey.

at least i didn’t build
my whole fucked up personality
on hurting people who were already
one disaster away
from not making it.

and then crying,
”i’m a victim”

real nice, guys.
just don’t say:
that you ever gave—
a single shit.

and
hey
come close…
when you ask me
how i’ll turn rage into peace—
maybe start by asking yourself
why you needed me to swallow it
in the first place.

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

live, laugh, lose 15k followers

yo.
shut the fuck up.

some of y’all are really out here
self-navigating to my online diary
to suggest—
politely,
passive-aggressively,
or outright—
that i
be quiet. ✨

like?
are you insane?
bitch—
absolutely the fuck not.

lemme just say this slow
so the people deep in the views
but pretending not to see me—
can keep up:

👏 this is not a fucking publicity stunt. 👏

if i wanted attention?
i would've shut the fuck up,
posted a thirst trap,
done a cartwheel in a thong,
gotten lip filler and never once said the word genocide.

you think i risked my fckin mortgage money
for social suicide?

no babe,
that’s ✨ dumb-brain behavior ✨
that’s “don’t think too hard” energy.
and i need you to try harder.

bro.
the only reason
we have furniture,
diapers,
lights,
is because
✔️ i used to be a micro-influencer,
✔️ i’m white,
✔️ and i had a baddie-bestie with social media leverage

when shit hit the fucking fan.

without that?
we’d be in a fucking car
next to a strip mall
eating dry cereal with no spoon.

the only reason we’re here
is because i made the disaster visible.

but popular?

LMAOOOO.
yo.
shut the fuck up again.

run the actual numbers:
since i started telling the truth?
💀 15,000+ followers gone.
💀 reach dead.
💀 shadowbanned like a fucking ghost.
💀 my attitude does not pass the vibe check.

2016? down.
me too movement? down.
palestine? lol.
domestic violence? white women panicked.
colonization? they started praying for me.

girl—
meta flagged me for
“hate speech”
for literally saying:

“men are trash.”

you think brands wanna touch this?
dv in public?
lol.
i am a walking commerce catastrophe.

brands want “healing” as an aesthetic.
they want “trauma” like a candle scent.
they do not want
“hey this man left me with a baby, a pile of debt, and a restraining order,
while the bloodline fucked me, gaslit me, ghosted me, and said i was being dramatic.”

yeah.
absolutely fucking not.

i am radio-fucking-active.

for real—
years of stats confirming
the more honest i am,
the more invisible i become.

and y’all still think this is for attention?
bro,
i’m getting hate texts.
distant fam in the dms like
“do you really have to say that?”

girl.
i can’t even pay the fucking light bill.
i’m cleaning houses with a toddler.
debating stripping.
dancing.
selling plasma.
whatever.

and y’all really want me to go radio silent?

that’s funny.
meanwhile—
the only reason we had groceries last week
was because a real one saw a 3am story
and sent bread, milk, and gatorade
like trauma down-bitch doordash.

this shit is not hot.
there is no clout
in being openly,
publicly
fucked.
there’s no participation award.
no influencer baddie trophy.
no benefit for surviving what should’ve fucking ended you.

this is not empowering™.
this is not marketable.
this is system failure triage.

and still—
even when the stats tank,
even when the algorithm tells me to eat shit and die
(usually after i say something like
“free palestine” with my whole chest)—
i keep narrating.

because this is the only thing i’ve got.

i can’t privately explain 35 years of trauma
to 300 people one by one.
they don’t have the time.
they don’t have the bandwidth.
and let’s be real—
not everyone gives a fuck.

but if i stay visible,
if i say it when it’s happening—
the people who do care can read my sos.
and sometimes—
they actually fucking save us.

but go off—
next time you wanna snake,
“she’s doing this for pity,”
switch to the internal monologue
and ask yourself:

would you rather be dead,
homeless,
or disliked by megan from marketing
and an uncle that was always a dick?

’cause personally? same, bitch.

truth kills reach.
truth kills the mood.
truth kills families.
truth kills careers.
but silence kills women every day.

so definitely,
i could be out here—
still posting handstand pics on the beach
still doing it for the likes
still making that cash
if i’d just shut the fuck up.

but silence is dangerous.
and if the options are: disappear or disturb?
babe.
i’ll disturb.
i’ll burn it all-the-fuck down.

in high def.
with captions.
and the comment section off.

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

🚨 open door policy, but make it traumatizing

🚨 trigger warning: familial sexual misconduct, trauma reactivation

not graphic.
but it’s real.
and it’s fucking disgusting.
read with caution.
skip if you need.
this is for survivors who know
the exact acoustics of a nightmare being normalized.

shit started after the divorce.
this dumb-fuck got his own place
and magically forgot doors existed.
never closed one again.
ever.

and i’m not being fucking dramatic.
i’m being dead-inside accurate.

we got dropped off
some random ass weekend—
him? thrilled.
new nikes.
fast food.
chill vibes only.
me?
just trying to disappear into the walls.

so we’re trying to sleep—
like first night.
then we fucking heard it.
the sound.
you know the one.
the kind literally no child should ever hear from their parent’s room.
and we just stared at each other
blinking, like:
yo, what the actual fuck was that?

but it happened again.
then again.
then louder.
then more often.
then—
fuck—
it became background noise.

our new soundtrack,
no consent required.
like a fucked-up sitcom
laugh track i couldn’t mute.

thought that was bad?
nah, we went global.

first-ever duo trip.
i’m studying abroad—
he’ll take full advantage of that.
(my mom paid my tuition/all fees)
this man books a hostel in london.
fucking side-by-side beds.
right
fucking
over
there.

same sound.
same trauma,
international edition.
like, congrats—
my abuse has a passport stamp now.
and it’s incestuous.

i’m like a low-level adult now.
i think: surely now, people will listen.
i try explaining.
i get the classic remix:
he’s just weird.
he doesn’t realize.
he’s narcissistic.
it’s not intentional.

funny how no one calls me
a fucking liar.
just dramatic.
just sensitive.
just,
you know,
ruining the vibe.

so i stop trying to explain,
because explaining makes it real
and reality ruins
this dumpster-fucking-fire of a family.

fast forward.
full grow up.
fall in love.
get pregnant.
get trapped.
get punched.
a lot.

run for my life.
where do i land?
back in this hellhole
with my baby.

surely now he’ll stop.
i’m an adult.
i have a fucking child.
he’s literally a grandfather.

nope.
just hits pause.
waits until my counterpart’s asleep.
waits until it’s just me,
washing bottles,
folding tiny-ass clothes,
telling myself
“it’s not gonna happen again.”

buzz kill: it fucking does.
full-body freeze.
trauma flashbacks
like a greatest-hits compilation from hell.
and me standing there,
silently begging the air for mercy,
as if the air ever heard me before.

then we hit a bonus round of hell
i didn’t even know existed.
(!!!!!!!!!!)

because now—
get this—
i’m literally caregiving for this man.
me and my toddler
bringing tea,
making snacks,
like some twisted domestic goddess shit
i never signed up for.

middle of the fucking day.
eyes closed.
door open.
zero shame.
full visual.
pretends:
not to notice us.

i freeze.
i hide.
i dissociate so hard
my soul leaves my body for a smoke break.

and again, i try telling someone—anyone.
their response?
cue the remix again:
i got jokes.
i got weird hand gestures.
i got—
oh, he probably doesn’t even notice.
oh, you’re probably misinterpreting.
oh, it’s his house, you know.

right.
i noticed.
my nervous system definitely noticed.
but sure.
i’m the problem.
got it.

trapped between a dude who beats me
and a father who weaponizes
silence and sickness like a professional victim,
i try to find air.
try to pretend cleaning will erase it.

so i scrub carpets.
vacuum stairs.
disinfect counters.
i keep smiling at my daughter
like the world isn’t on fire.

now we’re alone.
baby-daddy dipped.

then one sunny sunday,
vacuum humming,
child behind me,
i pass the fucking door again,
FUCKING CASUALLY.
and there it is—
AGAIN.
and my soul?
leaves my fucking body again.
stands in the hallway with me,
dead-eyed and dry-heaving.

(I FUCKING HATE YOU)

and the bonus,
the absolute punchline
of the whole fucked-up joke?
i’m the one they call angry.
i’m the ungrateful one.
i’m the one that got—
kicked the fuck out.
with a baby.
in january.
me.
not him.
not them.
me.

i repeat:
we confronted him.
he increasingly got more violent.
and kicked us the fuck out.

left with whatever
we could fit in the subaru.
six months—
one bag of clothes.
me.
a dog.
a baby.
repurchased—
every.
single.
thing.
my daughter needed.
**thanks to:
my best friend.
and instagram.

as if anger isn’t the only sane response
to this absolute fucking demon-circus.
as if survival isn’t exhausting enough
without being told you’re doing it fucking wrong.

that night,
washing sippy cups,
thinking about how this man has never actually seen me—
not as a daughter.
not as a mother.
just a prop,
a set piece in his performance of integrity.

a fucking body.

just something to step over on the way to his next fucking victim.

so yeah.
does this shit make you feel sick? good.
that means you’re paying attention.

i still feel sick, too—
and he still has all our shit.

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❤️ rituals of the flesh Samantha Lee Lowe ❤️ rituals of the flesh Samantha Lee Lowe

the life you could've had—if you weren't scared of greatness 🖤

okay, babe, pause.

i want you to sit with something.

like—
real quick, imagine:

it's early as fuck.
sun cracks in through our bedroom window.
i'm already awake because
your alarm wakes me before it wakes you.
but i roll over,
run my hand across your chest—
you open your eyes like,
"shit, my girl's fine as hell,"
and we fuck like we've got all day—
even though we've got like seven minutes
before the kids start destroying the house.

boom.
satisfied.
i make coffee,
and you hit those eggs
like your name is gordon fucking ramsay.
it’s sexy.
you catch a glance of me
in a crop top and booty shorts—
can’t help it,
you’re grabbing my waist,
telling me you can't wait 'til tonight.

chaos downstairs:
our kids—
already awake,
already wild as fuck.
climbing on you—
but babe,
i’ve got it.
this shit's easy mode.
you're dressed,
looking like an absolute snack.
i hand you an actual snack for work,
grab you by the back of your neck,
pull you in for that goodbye kiss
you can't stop thinking about all day.
you lift our babies up,
swing them around—
they’re laughing,
screaming,
all messy hair and giggles and shit.
you leave for work with that big
"damn, this is really my life" energy.

at work,
you bust your fucking ass.
you sweat,
grind,
get that fucking money.
you know why?
we've got vacations planned,
babe—
rollercoasters to hit,
beaches to claim with our babies.

meanwhile,
i'm home:
i’m raising these kids, babe,
and they’re fucking thriving.
killing law school.
immaculate house.
dog loyal as fuck.
kid happy as fuck.
and i’m making cash too—
but it's "fuck around and find out" money,
babe.
flexible schedule shit,
because bad-bitch lifestyle.

later,
you roll up after work,
sun just starting to dip.
i actually learned how to cook
without setting the kitchen on fire—
it's tacos or some shit.
you shower quick,
toss on sweatpants,
walk in like,
“holy shit, how did i land her?”
we sit,
eat,
laugh,
kids throwing taco shells around,
absolute chaos
but fuck,
they’re so happy.
they watch us, babe.
they see us loving each other right.
healthy,
laughing,
safe,
alive.

babe?
sometimes we even roll up at your job
just because we can.
bring snacks.
wave at daddy.
kids proud as shit—
seeing you do cool big man things.
you flex a little,
feeling yourself,
knowing your family sees you
absolutely dominating.

sun's almost gone,
we throw the kids in the truck for ice cream
but they pass out hard,
sticky faces pressed to the windows.
we pull over,
watch the sunset,
debating full-scale parental abandonment right there—
because, damn,
we’re still fucking obsessed with each other.
we chill,
hold hands,
step outside the truck—
to hit the spliff,
listen to music,
swear like fucking sailors,
make stupid jokes,
die laughing—
realizing we genuinely fucking love being together.

back home,
we carry sleepy kids to bed,
quiet forehead kisses goodnight.
then we close our bedroom door,
look at each other like it's day fucking one,
and babe—
we climb on top of each other
like we're still teenagers sneaking around.

that’s it.
that’s the life you could’ve had.

bro, can you fucking imagine fumbling this?

i’d say “tragic,”
but honestly?
it’s just fucking pathetic.

🖤

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

damn babe: karma really slapped you upside the head.

(honey, you really manifested this shit)

but nah girl—
the vibe is:

can you imagine if i was your ex?

like,
imagine losing me
and living with that knowledge

not just the body
not just the brain
but the entire experience
the rare combo of
baddie,
mother,
best fuck ever—
genius,
face card that never declines,
and woman who actually gave a shit about you
when she had absolutely zero reason to

nah
even in my worst chaos era
you fumbled
and i was just learning how betrayal lands
so i could come back sharper
less forgiving
and impossible to replace

years ago?
maybe i cried
maybe i begged
maybe i tried to reason with boys who don’t read
gave too many second chances
too much benefit of the doubt
to men with no benefits
and no doubt they’d fold under pressure

but now?

bro
even mid-apocalypse:
my home is immaculate
my kid is glowing
my gpa is climbing—
my dog’s got better judgment than you
i don’t lie.
i don’t cheat.
i don’t scam people out of love, money, or pity.
i don’t need to manipulate—
my personality is strong enough to carry me, babe.

you hope you upgraded?

baby—
your girl looks like a fan
who follows me on instagram
like—
lowkey hater
highkey obsessed

👀 watching my stories
like it’s bad bitch homework she’s failing
in the bushes like
“babe who is she?”
while i'm in your hoodie,
unbothered
and she struggles
to emotionally regulate in target.

(damn homie, embarrassing)

sweetie—
you’re not in love
you’re in hiding

and me?

still that mom
you wish your kid had—
still hotter than ever.
still fuck better,
still smell better,
still feel better,
and it still definitely haunts you.

but you’re just out here
still scrolling—
still
👀 👀 👀

…yikes,
babe.

sweetheart—
remember,
you don’t miss me
you miss the version of you
that felt less mediocre
next to a legend

and now?

now you get to love women
who ask less.
who need less.
who think less.
who mother—less.
who remind you of this version of yourself.
because that’s what boys choose
when they can’t grow up and claim a dime-piece.

how pathetic—

so here’s your compensation prize:
babe—


you get to tell people
you knew me.
once.

but not really.

🖤

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

💀 universal laws for the emotionally irresponsible.

a nonchalant science recap for the delulu & dramatic:
aka
☁️ physics for people who lie recreationally

1. newton’s third law
(the fuck-around-and-find-out doctrine)

yo—
let’s simplify:
every action has a reaction.
for every ghost,
there’s an equal and opposite glow-up—
and the universe sends you
a certified “wyd” at 3 am.
you lie about who you're with?
→ your "boys night" ends up tagged
on tiktok as a “do you know this man?”
hits the timeline like a meteor, babe.
nature’s clap-back:
you threw shade → they got brighter.
it’s basic drake physics:
"started from the bottom, now we here."
⚖️

2. the butterfly effect
(small fuckups, colossal L’s)

homie,
let’s talk causality.
you send one “u up?” at 2:17 am → 3 years later
you’re choosing nursery paint colors
with a girl named after an essential oil.
micro-mistakes multiply exponentially, babe.
one tiny lie
and suddenly your whole narrative
is sponsored by
anxiety meds
and paternity tests.
it’s giving “wtf did i do” energy
sincerely,
chaos theory.
tiny flap.
massive storm.
oops.
🦋

3. schrödinger’s cat
(the quantum dm slide theory)

bro—
the unread message
is both “seen” and “unseen”
until you click it.
it’s simultaneously chill vibes
and a 7-paragraph monologue
that’ll ruin your life.
leave it unopened: anxiety.
open it: confirmed chaos.
welcome to the quantum mechanics
of your inbox—
where every notification
is a fuckin existential crisis
waiting to drop.
the cat’s already dead.
so is the vibe.
📲

4. entropy
(everything trends towards chaos)

everything falls apart
unless maintained.

and babe
you didn’t maintain.
same shit applies emotionally.
you start narrating bullshit and leave it…
unresolved?
babe—
suddenly you’re living
in an emotional haunted house.
the sloppy chronology piles up
until you’re sleeping on unresolved drama,
unpaid emotional support,
and too many “it’s just complicated” texts
clean up your shit—
or watch it deteriorate into chaos.
⚡️

5. occam’s razor
(angel, just stop fuckin lying)

short version:
the simplest explanation
is usually the correct one.
(shout out to the hubby)
your girl catches you:
option a: “my phone died.” (probable, mildly sus.)
option b: “i got kidnapped by crypto bros in cancun and they deleted my contacts.”
(creative, highly entertaining, deeply full of shit.)
lying requires hella footnotes, baby.
the truth?
uncomplicated.
cut the shit.
✂️

6. the first law of thermodynamics
(bullshit is eternal)

energy cannot be created or destroyed—
only transformed.
aka: “real hot-girl shit.”
(thanks, megan)
so the dramatics you stirred up
thinking “lol really fucked up that love story”
nah babe,
it transformed into emotional warfare
and is now fully weaponized against you—
the insecure bullshit never evaporates;
it only evolves into trauma responses
and an emotional shitstorm—
everytime the jealousy spikes.
you’re reminded—
because that shit is forever.
🔥

7. quantum entanglement
(two lies, one notification)

scientists say two particles
linked together react instantly across distance.
translate this shit:
you send one shady dm in boulder—
her best friend’s crystals vibrate in alabama.
energy’s real, king.
and so’s the screenshot.
(jk—but don’t test me)
🔗

8. karma
(the spiritual “fuckkkkk”)

yo—
to quote the words of
saint cardi:
“the karma for you is gon’ be
who you end up with.”

translation:
every lie,
ghost,
or fuck-around = shiiiiiit.
karma’s just waiting for you
to post a thirst trap—
then sends it to your boss,
your mom,
and your spiritual advisor.
🪬

9. sunk cost fallacy
(doubling down on dumb shit)

”got 99 problems...?"
and more specifically…….
it ain’t love—
you’re just embarrassed.

you stayed because leaving meant admitting
you wasted years on a delulu theory.
and now?
you’re committed.
so you’re out here doubling down on stupid.
sending more texts,
fabricating timelines,
inventing fake scenarios.
congrats, honey,
now we all take the hit.
shit’s just bad math.
💸

10. roi of truth
(the index fund of vibes)

truth isn’t hot—
it’s fuckin slow-metamorphosis.
boring as shit,
but stable as hell.
lies are a crypto currency:
quick hype,
then crash harder than the 2008 stock market.
truth is the 401k of emotional investing:
compounding quietly,
zero panic attacks at midnight.
buy in early, bro.
🌪

the recap:

physics doesn’t care about your feelings.
and the universe isn’t chill.
it’s just patient.

bless up.
truth out.
🧃🧠🧃

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

intention deficit disorder 💀

ok like—
help me out here y’all.
(i’m serious)


i’m genuinely trying to understand
how people can move through life
with this bizarre skillset
of saying emotionally intimate shit
they don’t even slightly stand by.

like seriously,
i don’t think you realize
i logically cannot wrap my head around
the cognitive dissonance of that.

like
genuinely
can someone explain to me
how people have entire hidden motives
and don’t short-circuit from the sheer cognitive load of that??

like bro
i say what i mean
and i mean what i say
not because i’m above-it or evolved or whatever
but because i literally cannot keep track
of a fake personality
plus my real one
plus the logistics of daily survival

if i told you i cared—
i meant it
if i let you in,
it wasn’t a test
i wasn’t trying to manipulate you into staying
i just actually fuckin liked you
and thought maybe this would be safe

so when people say one thing
and then actively do the opposite
i’m like
bro.
genuinely.
what was the plan?
like was it a game?
did you win?
was the goal to get close to me just to dip??
congrats i guess?

like i am trying—
truly trying
(this is a generalization)
to comprehend how someone
can look you dead in the eye
say “i love you,”
and be actively drafting their
fuck around and find out chaos
or dumpster fire of an exit strategy—
the same fucking second.
like…
did you dissociate mid-sentence or are you just evil?

my guy—
i’m sitting here like
a tired ass bitch with a toddler
a police dog drop-out and a google calendar
trying to figure out
why the people who swear they fuck with me
keep moving like kanye post–vma interruption
loud, chaotic, and not about me actually

like bro.
i’m not taylor.
you don’t get to hijack my stage
say you care
then bounce
leaving me to accept an award
for surviving shit you induced

and this isn’t even romantic at this point
this is across the fucking board
family, friends, people who “wanna help,”
people who “care so much,”
and then completely fuck you
or ghost harder than my serotonin every time the
delusion disintegrates

and bro, truly
it’s not that i’m out here on some high-road saint shit
it’s just like
i don’t have the neurological capacity
for multilayered interpersonal deceit.

it is actually confusing to me.
because why not just—
disengage?
not waste energy fucking with people?

because honestly—

you think i’m scheming?
babe i’m googling “is it normal to forget to eat and also cry while folding laundry”
i’m maxed out.
i don’t have a secret folder of false identities.
this is it.
this is the whole presentation.

if i love you, you’ll know it.
if i’m mad, you’ll hear it.
if i say “i care,” it’s not a pr stunt.
it’s because i meant it with my whole unhinged little chest

so when people say shit they never plan to keep solid—
like “i’m not going anywhere”
then dip harder than jay-z during the diddy trial.
i’m just like
ok.
cool.
so yeah
if you told me one thing
and then did the complete opposite
i’m not mad
i’m just… confused.
like deadass.
because…
what was the reason?
why even say it??

it breaks my heart
and honestly, it’s giving:
“i love you but only if it costs me nothing”
”i was always trying to manipulate you”

“i’ll always be here” (except when you’re sobbing)
you matter to me” (until i get challenged or uncomfortable)

and it’s not even that deep anymore
i’m not spiraling
i’m just looking around like
bro. seriously?
was this your plan??
this??

idk

seems unfulfilling.
i’m just sitting here
blank-faced
asking the universe:
why?

like did it make you feel powerful
to pretend you were safe for me?
did you just wanna get the behind-the-scenes access
before lighting a fire and dipping??
did you just wanna feel something?

—you practice your exit in advance?

because.
yo. be serious.
i know i’m intense
but i’m consistent.
and it’s wild that
me—trauma-coded,
adhd fried,
hanging by one thread of executive function—
is somehow the most honest bitch in the room.

idk man
maybe y’all are built different.
maybe your capacity for false intimacy is
a feature, not a bug.

maybe y’all are the intelligent ones.

but over here?
i’m incapable of pretending
i physically cannot perform affection i don’t feel
it would be mentally exhausting,
feel unproductive—
and i refuse to buy-in
to this casual intentional cruelty
y’all pass off as standard.

it’s weird.

so yeah.
i’m perplexed.
not raging.
just genuinely, neurologically
and spiritually
confused as fuck

i meant what i said.
and you didn’t.
and apparently
that was the intention.

odd af.

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

“yo, just stfu”

i know i know,
you’re like:
girl—
just
shut the fuck up.

listen—

y’all really think i’m out here
for the optics?
on some survivor girl,
victim bullshit?

like this is some petty drama?

yo—
on my daughter, my dog, my life:
i’d rather do anything fucking else.

bro, hear me out:
i’d rather literally have any other scenario.
you think this shit is amusing?
like cool character development arc?
some random theatrics
i do because daddy didn’t love me enough?

lol.

nah.
please be serious.

this shit ripped my heart out.
i’m writing about pain when
i was already fucking drowning.
when life was already so fucking heavy.
and all i wanted was someone to be
fucking nice to me.

but some of y’all just see drama.
attention seeking.
whatever.
i don’t give a fuck anymore.

here’s the truth:
my whole life?
lived in silence.
in the fucking shadows.
right where everyone could fucking see.
i promise you—
millions out here,
trapped in the same brutal bullshit,
all because they convinced us to
shut the fuck up.

that’s the whole fucking plot, my dude.
pretend that shit didn’t happen—
or wait,
it just wasn’t that bad—
or like,
not like that.

but nah bitch—
it was
exactly like that.

brutality.
violence.
manipulation.
sexual abuse.
real nasty shit.

and no,
i’m not talking about some ex
or some bitch who smoked my weed.
that’s just shit that hurt my feelings.
i’m talking the real—insidious level shit.
the soul-killing,
skull-crushing,
generations-long,
financially and emotionally obliterating shit.

and all they want—
is for us
to
shut the fuck up.

that’s the only way
this shit
survives.

if we are:
so scared.
so depleted.
so overwhelmed.
so ashamed.
so isolated.
so broke.

that we:

shut the fuck up.

bro—yeah,
i gotta say it out loud,
even if it sounds ugly.
betrayal,
abuse,
all the fucked shit
they told me
to keep my
fucking
mouth
shut
about;

but yo—
from my deepest parts of my whole heart:

i just wanted one of you to love me.
i know dude—
sad violin.
i know you’re skimming this part.
don’t wanna hear it.
i know y’all don’t give a shit.
shit makes me wanna cry.
because—
i know:
i’m not perfect.
i know i fucked up.
and honestly?
i would’ve told you that.
i tried to tell you.
i tell y’all when i fuck up.
i tell you i’ve seen shit no one should see.
and i’m still trying.

i still gave you my whole fucking heart—
even the ones i wasn’t
like—all in love with and shit.
just riding that homie wave,
ride or die—
forever.
or whatever.
some real shit.
i still loved y’all.
really.
fully.
my whole chest.

so why the fuck
couldn’t you just not stab me in the back?
not leave me fucking alone—

why couldn’t you at least try?
because it’s so pathetic,
honestly makes me so fucking sad—
because,
truly:
till the end,
i’m always still holding out hope
that someone’s gonna turn around and be like,
“nah, just kidding.
i’m not this shitty.
that was a mistake.
i’m sorry.”

bro.
(fuck—i might cry)

they don’t.
because they fucking suck.
or what-the-fuck-ever.
and it hurts
so.
fucking.
bad.

to be alone.
and told it’s your fault.

y’all think i’m trying to play the victim?
please.
i’d rather be
fucking chill,
normal
.
not fucking
short fucking circuiting—
for no fucking reason.

and i healed so much—
i don’t shake.
i don’t coldsweat.
i don’t lash out.
i always see the good.
i don’t feel like—
the world is fucking caving in.
i’m finally ok.

and everyone’s gone.
or shit.
or just really far.

seriously—
please hear me:
this is the hand i was dealt.
so don’t tell me to shut the fuck up
all i’m trying to do is survive
without turning
in-to-a
piece
of
shit.

i fight that ghost—
every
fucking
day.

if i don’t say it,
if i shut the fuck up?
babe—
they win.
all that darkness stays
hidden,
unpunished,
reaffirmed.

disappearing?
that ain’t the move.
that’s how
generations
of women
evaporated.
vanished.
went fucking insane.

speaking out?
brave as shit?
scary a shit?
worth it as shit.

believe me baby—
i fucking swear:
that’s
the only
way

this shit stops hiding in the dark.
my guy.

this is how i save the girls
not even born yet.

i have to.

so couldn’t you
just not be
so fucking mean?

i’m already scared as fuck.

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

vibrator ’til death do us part 💀💀

aka: bro. i tried.

yo.
i’m not even gonna lie to you.
by the time i was full arms-swinging
out of my whole-ass marriage—
wrecking-ball energy,
toddler + emotional support dog in the subaru—
i remember thinking:

there’s no fucking way
i’m bringing my kid around these dudes

(my single-girl roster averages like 5–7 per fiscal year)
times… what? 18 years?!
do the math—shit.
that’s like…100+ failed male experiments?!
and a little girl thinking “eating men alive”
is just mommy’s quirky lil hobby.
i couldn’t do it.
so—
i had a moment.
not like spiritual awakening.
just, like… clarity.

the kind you get while
microwaving dinosaur nuggets
and staring at a wall.

and somewhere in my stupid lil lizard-girl brain
i was like—

okay.
if there’s one man i’d risk it all for—
(full heartbreak, full exposure, full “will he pass the stepdad vibe check?”)
it was him.
my one real regret.
my personal myth.
my what-if-that-was-the-real-one-and-i-just-fucked-it-up.
so when that shit imploded
in a way so profoundly pathetic???
(10/10 wouldn’t even pitch it to netflix, it’s too bleak)

i just kind of… recalibrated.

i was like, okay. plan b:
friends with benefits.
low drama.
casual only.
no feelings.
chill.
just vibes + orgasms.

men should love this shit, right?
wrong.

like yo—
these dudes were confused.
like—deeply confused.
i was offering a win
they did not understand the assignment.

i said:
casual. cool. detached.
come over.
go down on me.
don’t be weird.
don’t propose.
don’t tell me about your estranged stepbrother named brad.

but what did they do?
all of the above.
in that order.
twice.

brooooooooo.
when i tell you—
i auditioned these men.
i shit you not—
full casting couch energy.
just being like—yo:
read the script.
stay in your lane.
act like a person.
don’t cry after.

and still

my dudes
could. not. handle. it.
not the logistics.
not the vibe.
not the silence.
not the detachment.
not the fact that i didn’t need their life history
on fucking slide deck 1 of our friendship.

homie—
i told you this was a recurring guest star role,
not your main character arc.

and these gremlins were out here
bleeding their whole childhood into the storyline.
telling me about their deadbeat dads
and stepmom trauma or some shit—
baaaaabe.
please be serious.

it’s honestly incoherent—
how few men are emotionally qualified
to be even
a casual situationship.

bruh.

y’all can’t even not fall in love
or not emotionally collapse
under the weight
of exactly what you claim to want.

like—
why are you being weird after we kissed once
in between my kids’ bath and bedtime?

and the actual sex????

like—
jesus christ.
it’s giving…
sixth-grade fan fiction energy
with the stamina of a 90s dial-up connection.

and the worst part?

they still think
they’re bringing
alpha energy.
like—
brooooo.
this is not what you think it is.

so in conclusion:
un-fucking-believable.

it’s looking like:
✨ vibrator until the sun explodes ✨
✨ god’s loneliest soldier ✨
✨ celibacy, but make it tragicomic ✨

final diagnosis?
men are not emotionally qualified
to be even the casual relief character
in the subplot of my
post-divorce sexual renaissance.

because apparently
you either get:
once-in-a-lifetime, soul-shattering,
timeless love story shit—

or

you get a fucking
man-child
with two positions and a neck tattoo
who’s crying into his hands
because you didn’t text him
“🥺” after he got home.

and guess what?
i got neither.

so yeah.
the myth’s dead.
the fallback plan’s a fucking joke.
and it’s just me,
my vibrator,
and a delusional little dream now.

🪦✨

lmk if someone emotionally literate
with dick game above a 3.7 becomes available.

💀

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Samantha Lee Lowe Samantha Lee Lowe

not a threat. just a fucking deadline.

look baby girl
some of you are high-key spiraling
because your little feelings got hurt
by something i wrote in a fucking internet-diary.

good for you.
welcome to emotional terrorism
in the mildest possible form.
a sentence.
a punchline.
a mirror.
lil bitch.

but let me be precise:
this isn’t about you.
fucking relax.
you are not the story.
you are a supporting clown in the background circus
of much bigger crimes.

this isn’t about your bruised ego
or your limp dick energy.
this is about felonies.

real fucking criminalities.

nah, babe—
this isn’t me threatening you.
this is me reminding you
the law is patient.
statutes have clocks.
and i?
i know how to read a calendar.

some of you are out here
living like the credits rolled—
like the drama's done,
like my silence equals peace.

LOL. 🤡🤡🤡

nah.
my silence was strategy.

you thought i was healing?
i was organizing.

you thought i moved on?
i moved jurisdiction.

i don’t need to name names.
you already popped up in the visits like
oh shittttttt—
you think she remembers???

yeah babe. i do.

✶ the hubby–advisor duo?
the one-two punch of emotional warfare
and financial fuckery?
hi y’all!!
nice to see you stalking—
it’s giving allegedly fraudulent
with a side of “lol, is this relationship even legal?”
you girlies really thought you were leo in wolf of wall street,
but nahhh, shit was the goddamn titanic
full blown disaster,
trying to invoice me for the fucking iceberg.
bold strategy, ladies.
let’s see how it plays in front of a judge.

the east coast predator
you invited me across the country,
fucking terrorized
and let’s be real— commited crimes
against me and my child—
anddddd still have all our shit?
yo—
you’re lucky possession isn’t nine-tenths of the soul,
because i might be coming for all of it.
possibly your 401(k),
your couch,
and your fucking Costco membership.
lil bitch.

the rapist?
baby,
new jersey doesn’t do expiration dates.
criminal sexual assault?
no statute of limitations.
zero. zip. forever.
press charges tomorrow?
or in ten years.
or on your grandkid’s birthday—
depends on my google calendar;

you’re not safe, babe—
you’re just unprosecuted.

👼🏻👼🏻👼🏻

so nah—
this ain’t a threat.
this ain’t some cryptic post.
this is your legal prophecy.
i’m just letting you know
some of you are on borrowed time.

and not in the spiritual way.
in the legal way.

babe.



thought i’d forget?
bitch, i was writing things down.
i’ve got the names, dates, fucking screenshots—

because baby—
y’all earned this.
it’s not petty.
it’s divine
retribution.

the rest of you?
pure clownery.
real petty bullshit.
sadboi background dancers.

a little betrayal here,
a little abandonment there.
do i remember? yeah.
do i care? not enough to file.

so y’all
that are losing it over…???
feelings???
sleep better at night.
go find a new guilty obsession.
stop stalking me.
you are not the main character here.

but a few of you?

oh, sweetheart.
you’re not in my past.
you’re on my docket.

fuck around
and
find
out.

you absolutely fucking
deserve
it
all.

divine timing, baby.

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for legal reasons, this is a vibe.

consider this your character development arc. you’re welcome.